He stepped into the room, and Miss Di Abaccio turned and put the saucer on the desk and, in something of a fluster, grasped her small reticule, until then lying in her lap, looked up at Stokes, and made to rise—
Stokes waved her back and found himself nodding politely to her. “Miss Di Abaccio.”
Uncertain, with her wide eyes fixed on his face, she subsided onto the chair.
Fitch threw Stokes what was almost a warning look and retreated with the biscuits.
Then Hugo stepped into the room; until that moment, he’d been concealed by the corridor’s gloom.
Stokes looked at Miss Di Abaccio in time to take in the fact that her eyes could, indeed, grow bigger yet. She stared at Hugo, and her lips formed a silent “Oh.”
For his part, Hugo had eyes only for her. He moved past Fitch, bent to take Miss Di Abaccio’s hand—which she wordlessly surrendered—and bowed gracefully over it. “My dear Cara, please be assured that neither I nor Inspector Stokes here”—with his other hand, Hugo indicated Stokes—“nor the police nor anyone with half a brain place any credence whatever in your aunt’s assertions.” Straightening, Hugo spied another chair; without releasing Miss Di Abaccio’s hand, he reached out, dragged the chair over, set it beside hers, and sat.
He clasped both his hands around the one of hers he’d appropriated, looked into her eyes, and in a tone that brooked neither dissent nor disbelief, stated, “We’ll soon get to the bottom of this.”
With that, calm and assured, Hugo raised his gaze and fixed it on Stokes.
Stokes looked down at the pair. He was receiving the distinct impression that, having possessed himself of Miss Di Abaccio’s hand, Hugo had no intention of letting it go—literally or figuratively.
Muting a humph, Stokes rounded his desk and sat in his comfortable office chair.
Between them, Fitch and Hugo resited his and Miss Di Abaccio’s chairs so that they were sitting side by side to Stokes’s right, facing the desk and able to meet his gaze.
“First things first.” Stokes glanced at Fitch, who dutifully drew out his notebook and pencil, then Stokes transferred his gaze to Miss Di Abaccio. “I understand you are Lord Carisbrook’s niece and his ward. Were you born in England?”
“No. In Italy.” Miss Di Abaccio’s voice was low in tone, faintly husky, and her accent converted ordinary words into something vaguely exotic. “My father was Italian, and my parents lived there. My mother was Lord Carisbrook’s younger sister. When my parents died of a fever last year, Lord Carisbrook became my guardian and was kind enough to insist I come to England and live with his family here. He and the household have made me very welcome, and I will always be grateful for that.”
Fitch scribbled diligently, and Stokes nodded. “I see.” He mentally kicked himself for not asking Hugo earlier, but he needed to know. “Forgive my bluntness, Miss Di Abaccio, but did you inherit substantial assets?”
Hugo’s face darkened, and he shook his head, but Miss Di Abaccio’s countenance showed no hint of discomposure.
“No, no—I have no money. I am…” She glanced at Hugo. “A poor relation.” She looked at Stokes. “Lady Carisbrook has told me that is my state.”
Stokes found his opinion of Lady Carisbrook sinking minute to minute, but it seemed her accusation at least had the merit of understandable motive, if nothing else. “When did you join the Carisbrook household?”
“I arrived in London in the second week of March, so it is now four weeks that I have been here.”
Fitch cleared his throat.
When Stokes looked inquiringly his way, the constable—an experienced man—said, “Begging yours and Miss Di Abaccio’s pardon, sir, but her ladyship did say as Miss Di Abaccio was the only foreigner in the house—set great store by that point, her ladyship did—and also that all the staff have been with the household for years.”
Stokes digested that news, then looked at Cara Di Abaccio. “Miss Di Abaccio, did your aunt welcome you into her home?”
Miss Di Abaccio looked down at her hands, still entangled with Hugo’s. “I… She…” Then she drew breath and said, “I cannot properly answer that, sir.”
The glare Hugo was directing at him convinced Stokes to leave that point, at least for the moment.
Stokes humphed and tugged at his lower lip. Prejudices—it seemed more than one—had prompted Lady Carisbrook to determinedly and with intent point her finger at her niece-by-marriage. Prejudice wasn’t proof, yet setting her ladyship’s accusation aside, the fact remained that the Carisbrook emeralds, unquestionably highly valuable, had gone missing, presumed stolen.
That was the crux of this case.
And as such, it fell to Scotland Yard—and therefore to Stokes and his team—to solve the crime, apprehend the culprit, and if possible, retrieve the emeralds.
Stokes refocused on Cara and Hugo. Cara was still sitting primly with her eyes downcast, her gaze apparently on Hugo’s hand, still surrounding one of hers in her lap, while Hugo had his head bent, murmuring reassurances that Stokes could be trusted to see everything put right.
Stokes swallowed a snort. He was touched by Hugo’s confidence, but Stokes knew his limits. To deal with this case, he would need those bigger guns he’d thought of earlier.
As for Cara Di Abaccio’s innocence, in his experienced view, the strongest evidence to date on that subject was Hugo’s belief in it. Hugo was an Adair, and Stokes had a high regard for the instinctive intelligence of the members of that family.
Conscious that time was passing and that there was nothing he needed to ask Cara Di Abaccio that couldn’t be asked, and possibly better asked, later, Stokes looked at Fitch. “I’ll speak with the duty magistrate and clear a search of the Carisbrook residence. Meanwhile, tell Wilkes to go to Albemarle Street and request the assistance of Mr. Barnaby Adair.”
“Yes, sir!” Fitch put up his notebook, eager to get on. “Should Wilkes ask Mr. Adair to join us here?”
“No.” Stokes rose to his feet. “Tell him”—his lips quirked; it was Sunday after all, and Penelope, Barnaby’s wife, was sure to be at home as well—“and anyone who might think to accompany him to meet us outside the Carisbrook house.”
Fitch snapped off a salute and headed for the door.
Stokes looked at Hugo and saw the determination and hope in his face, then nodded to him and Miss Di Abaccio. “Wait here. My meeting with the magistrate won’t take long.”
Stokes, Miss Di Abaccio, Hugo, and Wilkes were waiting—not particularly patiently—in a supposedly anonymous large black coach drawn up to the curb opposite Number 12 John Street when Barnaby Adair, with his wife, Penelope, on his arm, strolled up and rapped on the carriage’s side.
Stokes humphed, leaned forward, and swung open the door.
Standing on the pavement, the handsome couple looked into the carriage with undisguised curiosity.
Over the years, the pair had assisted Stokes with a significant number of cases in which the wrongdoers had proved to be members of society’s upper echelons. As the third son of an earl, Barnaby had the entrée into circles beyond Stokes’s reach. More, having been born into such circles, Barnaby and Penelope possessed a wealth of contacts, as well as understanding how the nobs thought and why they acted as they did; such insights had proved invaluable in solving the aforementioned cases. In addition, Barnaby’s father, the Earl of Cothelstone, was one of the directors of the Metropolitan Police. Given that and their history of success, the commissioner now took it as a given that when a case involving the ton arose, Stokes would handle it and would consult with Barnaby and Penelope Adair.
Stokes’s gaze ranged over his friends; he hadn’t seen them for a few weeks. Many a villain had looked at Barnaby, seen a typical gentleman of his class, and underestimated his intelligence and his devotion to seeing justice done—more fool them. As tall as Stokes, but leaner and more elegantly dressed, Barnaby exuded the aura of a gentleman about town. His pale skin, aristocratic features, halo of guinea-gold curls, an
d bright-blue eyes were a visual foil to Stokes’s darker, more saturnine features, his close-cropped black hair, and eyes of steely gray. Despite their differences—in looks, background, and social standing—they’d grown to be successful associates in solving crimes and, along the way, had become close friends.
That friendship had solidified further when their wives—Barnaby’s Penelope and Stokes’s Griselda—had become firm friends, too. Then last year, courtesy of another case, their small circle had expanded to include Heathcote Montague, renowned man of business to the ton, and his wife, Violet, who these days divided her time between organizing Montague and organizing Penelope.
Framed by the carriage doorway, Penelope met Stokes’s eyes and smiled delightedly. Petite, dark-haired, supremely well connected among the ton, a darling of the grandes dames and with the ear of all the most important hostesses, Penelope was a force to be reckoned with. Her primary interests beyond her and Barnaby’s son, Oliver, lay in translating old and generally obscure tomes for various learned institutions while simultaneously, along with her three sisters, overseeing the activities of the Foundling House in Bloomsbury—which in part explained why she needed Violet to organize her days.
Yet it was Penelope’s intellect that was her most striking attribute; it manifested in a vibrant interest in all about her that shone in her dark eyes, magnified by the spectacles she habitually wore. She was now a matron of twenty-six years, yet her enthusiasm for life—and for justice—remained undimmed.
Together with Penelope having taken astute survey of the occupants of the carriage, Barnaby smiled and arched his brows. “I gather our assistance is required.”
Behind the lenses of her spectacles, Penelope’s eyes gleamed. Her gaze had fixed on Hugo and the lady sitting beside him, and Penelope’s expression turned openly intrigued.
Stokes waved the pair inside; the coach was cavernous, built to carry at least six large men. He waited until Barnaby helped Penelope up and followed her in, shut the door behind him, and sat beside her on the seat opposite Stokes, Hugo, and Cara Di Abaccio before stating, “The Carisbrook emeralds have been stolen.”
Penelope heard the call to arms, but in that moment, she was far more interested in the young woman seated beside Hugo. From the lady’s coloring, she instantly deduced her identity. “Miss Di Abaccio, isn’t it?” Smiling brightly, Penelope held out her hand. She bit back the words: Hugo’s mother has mentioned you.
Briefly, Miss Di Abaccio met Hugo’s eyes, then leaned forward and lightly clasped Penelope’s fingers. “Yes, that is I. I am afraid you have the advantage of me, ma’am.”
Penelope grinned. “I’m Penelope Adair.” She waved at Barnaby. “And this is my husband, Barnaby Adair.” She shifted her gaze to Hugo’s face. “Hugo’s cousin. We occasionally assist Inspector Stokes when his cases involve members of the ton.”
Having exchanged a nod with Hugo and Wilkes, Barnaby reached across Penelope and shook Miss Di Abaccio’s hand. “A pleasure, Miss Di Abaccio, although I could have hoped that we would meet under less fraught circumstances.” Barnaby transferred his gaze to Stokes. “So…when did the emeralds go missing, and what has their disappearance to do with Miss Di Abaccio?”
Stokes gestured to Wilkes, who obliged by giving a concise report of what he’d learned on attending the Carisbrook house in response to Lady Carisbrook’s summons, then Stokes filled in what his questioning of Miss Di Abaccio had added to the picture.
When he fell silent and looked invitingly at her and Barnaby, Penelope couldn’t hold her tongue. “Good Lord!” Despite her years observing the ton, she was genuinely shocked. She looked at Cara Di Abaccio. “Lady Carisbrook’s behavior toward you falls well beyond the line of what can be excused. Even had she been overset by nerves—and from my albeit distant knowledge of her, that’s something I find difficult to believe—to treat you in such a manner without proof and then deny the police the opportunity to search the house and interview the staff is a monstrous injustice!” She paused, then went on, her tone hardening, “As for insisting you deliver her breakfast tray every morning…” Lips setting, she shook her head. “Words fail me.”
Barnaby, too, was distinctly unimpressed. “To accuse you of stealing as she did and insist on your removal from beneath your guardian’s roof… Such actions require strong justification, which, from all we’ve heard, is notably lacking.” After a second’s pause, he asked, “Tell us about the others in the family. We”—he glanced at Penelope—“are acquainted with Lord and Lady Carisbrook, at least by name. Who else of the family is currently residing in the house?”
Penelope noticed that Hugo had taken one of Miss Di Abaccio’s hands and now surreptitiously squeezed it in support.
Miss Di Abaccio—Cara; it was a great deal easier to think of her by her first name—raised her head and replied, “There are only two of the Carisbrook children who yet live at home—the second son, Franklin, and the third and last daughter, Julia. The older three children are married and live elsewhere.”
Penelope nodded. “Franklin Carisbrook is about my age, so I know next to nothing about him, and even less about Julia, who is younger.”
“She’s twenty-three,” Cara said. “Two months older than me.”
Penelope—along with Barnaby—fixed Hugo with an interrogatory look.
Hugo grimaced. “I don’t know either well.” He glanced at Cara. “I’ve only recently spent time in the circles they frequent.”
Only since Cara joined the family was Penelope’s guess. “Nevertheless,” she persisted, “what are your thoughts on the pair?” She pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose and fixed her gaze on Hugo’s face. “If you think, you’ll discover you’ve observed more than you realize.”
Hugo straightened on the seat. He frowned faintly, obediently casting his mind over all he’d heard and seen. Eventually, he offered, “I can’t tell you much of Julia Carisbrook, other than…” He glanced apologetically at Cara, then went on, “Well, she’s twenty-three, well-looking enough, but…too reserved—no, too self-effacing. As if she’s unsure she truly wants to attract any gentleman’s attention.”
Penelope nodded decisively. “She lacks confidence—hardly surprising with a mother like Lady Carisbrook.” To Stokes, she explained, “I understand Lady Carisbrook is a firm believer in managing her children’s lives to the smallest detail.”
“Oh yes,” Cara murmured. “You are right—it is just like that.”
Encouraged, Hugo went on, “Franklin is…very unhappy with his mother’s constant meddling with his life—with her hands on his reins, if you like. But I get the impression he’s intent on something—as if he’s glimpsed a way out and is determined to seize it.”
“Julia and I,” Cara said, glancing up and meeting Hugo’s eyes, “think that Franklin has found a sweetheart, but we don’t know who or where.” Cara looked at Penelope. “Franklin is often from the house—visiting friends, he says, but…” She shrugged. “A sweetheart can be a friend, yes?”
“Indeed.” Penelope nodded. “And to add my knowledge to our pool, third-hand though it is, it’s widely known that Lady Carisbrook is a shrewishly arrogant harpy. She adheres to the school of thought that holds that the only way to secure one’s own station in life is to make all those on social rungs below yours constantly aware of their place.” Penelope dipped her head to Cara. “Her insistence on you delivering her breakfast tray is an example of that. But her ladyship treats all and sundry in the same way—if one is not of higher standing than she, one is not worthy of her consideration.”
Beside Penelope, Barnaby shifted. “In contrast to his wife, Lord Carisbrook has the reputation of being a true gentleman, one of the old school, perhaps, but all the more gracious for that.”
Cara averred, “My uncle has been nothing but kind.”
Barnaby inclined his head. “Miss Di Abaccio—Cara, if we may?” When she nodded, he went on, “It would greatly help us all if you would answer my next questions with the u
tmost frankness.” He trapped her gaze. “I take it you and your uncle are on good terms?”
Readily, she nodded. “I am beholden to him, and he has been so very kind. I hold him in the highest esteem, and I fear I will never be able to repay him, so I have vowed I will always do my best to make him content with me.”
Barnaby smiled at her phrasing and smoothly asked, “And Franklin?”
“We are friends, I would think.” She glanced at Hugo. “Franklin, too, has been…welcoming, you would say.” She shrugged. “He is my cousin, and I would help him if he asked for aid, but outside the house, I know little of his life—only what we see when he attends with us at balls and parties.”
“I see. And your cousin Julia?”
“She and I are friends. Close friends, as we are of an age and neither of us have wed.”
“So you and she get along well?” Penelope asked.
Cara nodded. “Yes, very well.” She paused, then glanced at Hugo and said, “Sometimes, I think Julia is very happy I am now there, with her at the balls and parties, so that when the young gentlemen come to speak with us, I can…what is the phrase? Keep them amused? Then she can watch and speak to those she wishes to.” She pursed her lips, then added, “I am not as…quiet as she.”
“You’re not self-effacing and are significantly more confident,” Hugo stated.
Cara flashed him a smile, one that had Penelope mentally blinking. Truly, Cara Di Abaccio was a lovely girl who, apparently, had no idea of the power of her smiles.
“That,” Barnaby said, “brings us to the critical question.” He caught Cara’s eyes. “How would you say you got on with Lady Carisbrook?”
Cara wrinkled her nose, then said, “I cannot like her, and I know she is not at all happy to have me in her house—under her roof, as she puts it—but I do not argue with her, if that is what you mean. She is my uncle’s wife, and I will honor him in all things, even if that means holding my tongue and…what is the word…tolering? No—tolerating. Even if I must tolerate Lady Carisbrook’s slights, I will do it for my uncle.” She held Barnaby’s gaze and shook her head. “I would not cause strife in his household, not when he has welcomed me into it so warmly and generously.”